


To spit in the face of death

by EbonyMortisRose



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Irish Accents, Dracula turned Dr Reid not myrradin, Gen, OC - Leroy Jenkins my accident prone Priwen, Podcast audio attached, Podfic, Reid forced McCullum to drink his blood to cure him of the 'spanish flu.', Story from my RPG set in Vampyr world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24506023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyMortisRose/pseuds/EbonyMortisRose
Summary: In this alternate universe, Dr. Reid was turned by Dracula so that he could use his blood to create a cure for the 'Spanish Flu' that plagues 1918 London and find the root cause of the epidemic. But the poor souls that do die of this sickness, that has all the hallmarks of the black death return as bloodthirsty ghouls.The servants of the 9th have opened up 8 of the 9 gates of hell and all evil souls destined for an eternity of torture for their sin's now come back, jumping into bodies and seeking vengeance on the living.Some of the Wetboot boys are suspected of being possessed and currently employed in the police force.McCullum and his rookie Leroy have been arrested but not before the 'officers' literally put the boot in before throwing them both into a paddy wagon.- Its a point of note the Wet Bootboys got their name because their signature way of dealing with people was to kick them to death with hidden razor blades or knives embedded into the front of their dockers. -
Kudos: 3





	To spit in the face of death

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.dropbox.com/s/twpr5l2sp1nclgk/To%20spit%20in%20the%20face%20of%20death.mp3?dl=0 Audio of the piece.

**To spit in the face of death.**

Someone had a pillow over his face. He couldn't draw in a full breath. They were trying to kill him!

McCullum sits up, his world suddenly coming into sharp focus, as pain radiates out from several places on his chest.

He blinks and the worried face of his rookie...what was his name...Leroy, that's it, swims into view.

''C,c,c,c,c,onas tá tú?....Sir?

He tries to draw in a breath to reply, wanting desperately to reassure the lad that he was fine, even though he knew he feckin was far from it.

He manages to draw in a raspy breath, but when he tries to speak his words are drowned out in phlegm and blood.

His coughing nearly making him black out, as every instinct in his body screamed, air! I need air! Causing him to try harder and harder to breathe in.

''Sir!!''

He focused on the lad, through eyes blurred with tears, and realised he was gripping the boy's jacket to his chest wound.

He couldn't let the boy see him like this. He had to be strong for him.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on taking short shallow breaths. Rather than grasping for deep ones, and soon his convulsive coughing was under control.

It still hurt like hell, but with gritted teeth, he opened his eyes and nodded reassuringly at the lad giving him a thumbs up with his free hand.

What had happened? He was winning, those toff booters were no match for his street tactics. But then there was fire, or something close to it.

Something that he was hit with that made his whole body spasm.

He had lost control of his limbs, and could only watch as they descended on him like the dogs they were. The lad, the lad had shielded his head.

He looks over at Leroy, perched on the edge of the single wire framed bed in the watch-house cell.

He was a right mess. His remaining green eye was red with crying. The rights eye patch was barely holding in place and he cradled his bandaged stump of a right hand.

The scuffle had obviously irritated the stitches, as dark brown stains had seeped to its surface at its end.

He was also shivering, partly he thought due to the cold cell and giving him his jacket. But also the fact the poor kid must be in agony.

The booters had stripped them both of their weapons and any personal possessions, and there was morphine in his coat they could both use about now.

The booters, the bastards he thought, were not only working for Satan they were now protected, being part of the police force and that was just fucking grand.

He looks over again at the lad. Leroy was born in England, but his ma taught him the language of the isle.

He knew that he knew enough to be able to converse with him so he chose to only speak it whilst here to stop any devil-worshiping eavesdroppers.

''I'm....ok..lad...con'as ta t'u?''

The boy sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his good hand and replies.

''I'm ok Sir. Sir, they beat ya sir. One had those nasty blades on their boots Sir. I couldn't stop them!'’

He feels another coughing fit coming on and screws up his eyes and tries to stay calm. short breaths in, out, come on McCullum keep it together.

He nods and pats the lad's knee.

''Ya did good lad....saved mi life. You're the bravest...... little fecker, I ever had ...the...pleasure o meetin.''

He looks around at his surroundings, a typical stone-walled cell big enough for a bed and a bucket.

There were no windows, just bricks either side and in front of them thick steel bars.

The rest of the room beyond was barely lit by a dim oil lamp hanging from a hook on a ceiling beam.

He couldn't make out any exits and the shadows obscured the far wall. So he assumed they must be underground, a cellar perhaps.

He then notices movement out there, a shifting of shadow against shadow. As if the wind had caught the oil lamp light, causing the dark swathes to drift left and right. But there was no wind down here.

He screws up his eyes thinking his injuries were getting the better of him, but when he opens them again there's a man stood up against the bars.

He hadn’t heard him approach, no door open and he was damn sure he hadn’t blacked out. The man had simply appeared.

He was a middle-aged toff in a top hat and tails. His white hair and facial hair was well-groomed and not that colour through age, but more a quirk of his origins.

He noted he had a scar that ran the length of the left side of his face, from his eyebrow down to his cheek. That's also when he noticed his eyes, demonic slits like those of a cat.

Even with his back to the light source, they seemed to emit an eerie red glow.

He then smiles and under his trimmed mustache, he sees the glint of fangs.

McCullum automatically goes for his sidearm, drawing in a breath to yell orders to the kid. But remembers too late the bastards took all his weapons.

Then he can't breathe, coughing and spluttering he still tries to get the boy to go behind him. Grabbing at the lad with his free hand.

The vampire just laughs.

''So this is what has become of my progenies servant. Pathetic.''

Leroy disobeying his obvious orders to get behind him had stood once more protectively in front of him. His little trembling hand balled into a fist.

''Don't you dare hurt...Mmmmmr McCullum, beast!''

The vampire chuckles, it seems to reverberate around the cellar wall, then he growls.

_**''SIT DOWN BOY, DO NOT MOVE OR CRY OUT. YOU DID NOT SEE ME!''** _

McCullum once more manages to get his breathing under control, hearing that commanding tone in the leeches voice.

He watches as the boy's expression goes blank and he backs up sitting obediently down on the bed and just stares off into space.

He then grits his teeth and snarls at the toff leech

''So...tha booters...are...workin wi..leeches now?''

''Please, I do not work for anyone. You on the other hand are a slave to my blood, and subsequently a servant to my progenies blood. Who frankly is turning out to be quite the disappointment.''

His accent was posh, upper West End. A deep baritone that sounded familiar. But what was he saying, he tried to think? It was getting so hard now to focus on anything but breathing.

A slave to blood, Jonathans blood?

No, it can't be. He glares straight into this demon's eyes with all the hatred he could muster and hisses.

''Dragon!''

The leech reaches up and tips the edge of his top hat in greeting, giving that same mocking smile.

''I need you to follow your blood, follow the call. Be a good servant and rescue Dr. Reid. You know my blood can heal you, you know you are dying. Drink from me and i will free you and the boy from this place.’’

His rage, his utter hatred for this thing in front of him gives him the strength he needs to stand and take in a breath that burns like liquid fire and yell.

''NO HELSING WILL EVER BOW DOWN TO THA DRAGON!"

The blood that rushes up from his lungs with the exertion pools in the back of his throat, and he spits it into the things face.

It hits the smug bastard with a satisfying splat before he's doubled over once more staggering back onto the bed coughing and wheezing.

Through water-filled eyes, he watches as the leech slowly takes off a grey glove and wipes the blood from his cheek, and then licks it. He seems to concentrate for a moment as if savoring a favorite wine.

The vile creature was disgusting, but then he watches as his eyebrows raise in a look of surprise.

''Well now, that is interesting. A Helsing survived the culling. You know your mother ran off to a convent and he hid you, twins, from me? But you know the rest of that story.

Well this changes things. We are at war and I should have recruited a soldier, not a doctor. We....''

He then tilts his head as if hearing something. All McCullum can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears and the rasping breath, wheezing through his clenched teeth.

''How odd, It appears our Doctor has escaped. Maybe I misjudged him.''

He wipes the remainder of the blood from his face, licks his fingers, and puts back on his glove. He then tips his hat to him once more and in that commanding tone says.

**_''FORGET I WAS HERE, SPAWN OF HELSING.''_ **

He can feel the words trying to worm their way into his mind, through the fog of his pain and anger but they have no effect.

He just continues to glare at the beast, wishing he had his crossbow right now. Cursing the bed for being metal, not wood.

Cursing the bastard booters for taking everything from him, even his cross.

All he can do is watch as the beast steps backward into the shadows until only his glowing red eyes remain, then they too fade to black.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at that spot where he had vanished, but he damn sure didn't forget he had been here.

The fecking Dragon, the father of vampires, Dracula.

Moments later the lad seemed to snap out of the trance he had been put in and looks around in confusion. Seeing how agitated he was he asks in Irish.

''Are you ok Sir? ''

He hears the door to the cellar open, and the faint conversations above of the demon-possessed police and decides to reply again in Irish.

''I'm alright lad....if I die...I'll come back....Priwen will prevail!''

*********************************************************************************

Link to audio of this piece = https://www.dropbox.com/s/twpr5l2sp1nclgk/To%20spit%20in%20the%20face%20of%20death.mp3?dl=0

**Author's Note:**

> *McCullum talks of being hit with something that made his body spasm this was a cattleprod umbrella built by Viktor Frankenstein and stolen by a Wetboot. 
> 
> *This is a fic/scene from my Homebrew RPG series called The Penny Dreadfuls - Torchwood Origins. Set in the world of Vampyr. It's a multifandom crossover alt-universe where the cast of Vampyr, help or hinder my players to find the cause of the 'Spanish flu'. Stop the servants of the 9th opening the final gate and stop the oncoming apocalypse.  
> Videos of this RPG have also been done 14 episodes of season 1 and currently 5 episodes of season 2. Looking to add links to dropbox in later posts for any wanting to watch my attempt at Dr Reid, McCullum and Swansea. :)


End file.
